I’m teaching when I get her text: Where are you?
I text her back and assign my class some reading. Bag in hand, I speed-walk to the closest washroom.
Leaving this lot alone is a risk, but there’s no choice. If something goes wrong, I’ll claim food poisoning and a mad dash to the toilet.
Meeting in the school bathroom takes me back to my school days. I’m not sure how we worked it, pre-texting. Handwritten notes? Whispered commands in the hallways? Sign language?
I look both ways before shoving the door, feeling furtive and adolescent.
Stepping inside, I’m hit by the odor: bleach and bad drains offset by Dana’s perfume. It’s a clean, citrusy scent. She never smells girly.
Sure enough, she’s near a sink, arms crossed tight, like she’s freezing. She looks drawn, her face shadowy in the fluorescents. Seeing me, she steps forward: “Jo, what’s happened?”
I study the stalls behind her. While they look empty, you never know. I brush past her and give each door a hard push. This sets them all clanging.
Satisfied we’re alone, I spin back. Dana’s arms hang limp at her sides. She looks strung out. “What happened with Owen?” I ask.
“Two weeks’ suspension. And mandatory counseling. He’s clearing out his locker.”
I nod. Two drug offenses in two weeks. And an escalation. He got off lightly. I extract the phone from my bag and tap it to life. It’s a small, blocky red Nokia, more like a toy than a cell phone. “Here. Look.” I pass it to her.
She takes it tentatively, looking scared and puzzled.
“Start there,” I say. “And scroll down.”
The screen’s small, the light watery. Dana squints. The lines around her mouth look deeper.
I move closer to reread the exchange over her shoulder.
It’s a series of WhatsApp messages between this phone and another number, not linked to a name. It starts innocuously enough.
And so on.
I’ve had time to digest it and reach my own conclusions. I wonder what Dana will think. She keeps scrolling, her forehead wrinkled.
She swallows. This sort of stuff goes on for a while. Compliments, XXXs, and love hearts.
Dana looks up, confused.
“Keep reading,” I tell her.
When I first read it, I figured the phone was Owen’s. I wondered if D was for Dad. The lines bracketing Dana’s mouth are getting deeper.
This gives Dana the same zap it gave me, her body tensing. Twins? What are the chances that this refers to some other twins? She licks her lips. The phone isn’t Owen’s.
Dana looks up, her eyes a hurt puppy’s. I can’t hide my impatience. Who knows what my class is up to? “What do you think?” I ask.
She sweeps a hand through her fine hair. “I don’t know.”
I tamp down a snort. “Keep going.”
Dana lowers the phone. Her face is stricken. When she meets my gaze, I know she gets it. Dana is D, and her son had her dead husband’s secret phone in his locker, the one Stan used to conduct the affair she knew he was having.
Dana rubs her forehead. “These texts were Stan’s.”
“Yup.” I cock my head, waiting. “And?” I prompt.
“Car show.” Her nostrils flare. “Angie Costin.”
I almost smile. Angie’s husband, Walt, is a car dealer. They run Costin Motors. Still, it’s hard to fathom Stan cheating on Dana with Angie, like learning a Ferrari owner has been taking secret joyrides in a Hyundai. But some guys like trashy.
I nod. “It’s Angie’s number. I checked. I thought it looked familiar.”
I’ve only called Angie once, to arrange that rendezvous at Felicity’s. Yet I’ve always had a good memory for numbers. “She was just using her normal phone, not a burner.”
Dana’s eyes have turned hard and bright. “Stan was cheating on me with Angie Costin?” From the look on her face, you’d think the phone is covered in dog shit.
I understand how she feels. Stan was fucking an old high school rival. Except Angie wasn’t a rival. She’s too inferior: not the first runner-up, or even the second, but a contestant who got weeded out before the pageant even started.
Dana’s eyes narrow. “Ew! How could he?”
For a second, I think she’s forgotten that Stan’s dead, forgotten the past few weeks.
“She’s so—” Dana’s lip curls in revulsion.
“I know,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Stan wasn’t ugly. He was mega-rich. If he wanted to fuck around, he must have had options. So why go for Angie, a woman with no charm, whose looks are as convincing as cheap clip-on hair extensions?
Yes, she’s thin and blond. She’s white of tooth and red of claw. She bares an expanse of perma-tanned cleavage. From a distance, these things signal sexy, but up close they’re false advertising. Yet Stan got suckered in. Or maybe her appeal was that she was the anti-Dana? Perhaps Stan had tired of gourmet and wanted a greasy Big Mac.
I recall Angie back in Felicity’s, her avid eyes upon Dana. How she must have savored that secret, the sense of one-upping Dana. I wonder how long the affair lasted. For all his financial smarts, who knew Stan could be such a moron?
Dana shakes her head. “Stan told me he found Angie vapid.”
I roll my eyes. He probably did. Lots of men prefer vapid. It lets them be lazy.
Dana turns to study herself in the mirror. Her cheeks have reddened.
For the past few minutes, it’s as if we were back in high school, high on outrage. If only cheating lovers and frenemies were the true extent of our problems.
Distracted by her ire, Dana’s failed to see the real problem. It’s time to return to reality. I clear my throat: “How did Owen get Stan’s phone?”
Dana’s face hardens. “I don’t know. He must have found it somewhere.” Her voice is brittle.
Out in the hall, someone yells. This reminds me of my class, left alone. Is that one of my students running amok in the hall? I need to get back.
I nod at the phone in Dana’s hand. “There’s more. Give it here. Let me find it. I need to get back to class before all hell breaks loose.”
She hands the phone over.
I scroll through a blur of XXXs and love hearts. LOLs and firework emojis. Jesus, they were nauseating. Whose taste in lovers was worse, Stan’s or Dana’s? Angie versus Ryan. It’s like trying to decide between eating a slug or a laundry pod. Both unappealing. Both possibly toxic.
“Here.” I hand back the phone.
Dana bites her lip. She’s seen the date. The night.
It’s a cluster of messages, all from Angie.
And then one from Stan:
The phone goes down. Dana’s head jerks up. Her narrowed eyes go round. “Fuck,” she says softly.
I nod. Well put. Turns out Dana wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the secluded guest cottage. It was practically a love hotel.
“Fuck,” she says again. “Do you think Angie saw us?”
Instead of answering, I nod at the phone.
Dana’s eyes dip downward.
The next texts are all from Angie:
[sic. It’s a wonder she graduated high school.]
“Look at the times,” I say. All sent between midnight and 12:20 a.m.
Dana runs a hand over her eyes. Her voice is raw. “What time did you come over?”
“Twelve thirty?”
Her eyes bug out. “Fuck. She could have seen us on the dock.”
A bell rings out in the hall. Its buzz penetrates the walls. I look up sharply. “I have to go.” But I stay put. “Scroll down,” I order.
She bends back to the phone. I watch her closely.
The next message comes at 1:14 a.m.
This is followed by three missed calls. Then, twelve minutes later: